CHAPTER

Sixty-six

T he Minion warrior's name was Osiv, and as his strong wings carried him through the air, his sharp, dark eyes searched the ocean beneath him. About fifty meters away and matching his pace stroke for stroke flew Takir, his scouting partner. The midday sky was only partly cloudy, but heavier, darker clouds loomed to the east, directly across their flight path. Soon, Osiv knew, they would have to turn back to the scout ship from which they had come, empty-handed once again.

Looking down, all Osiv could see were the reaches of the Sea of Whispers. Five days had passed since the main body of their fleet had taken up its position off the coast and the scout ships had been sent on ahead. This was Osiv's and Takir's fourth such mission. They had come upon other vessels, to be sure, but none of them had proved to be slaver ships.

Just then Takir saw a lone frigate plowing her way due west. Running before the wind, she was making very good time. She carried no identifying flag. He signaled his find to Osiv, and the two warriors folded their wings behind their backs and rolled over into free fall, plummeting down to take a closer look.

As Osiv unfolded his wings to slow his descent and make a first pass over the frigate, he thought he must be seeing things. The ship seemed to be completely deserted. There were no sailors on her decks. Nor were there any to be seen in the rigging or in the crow's nest. Even the ship's wheel was unmanned. Still she plowed gamely on through the waves as if tended by the best of seamen, her course never varying.

Despite the fact that he was a Minion officer, Osiv felt a shiver go down his spine. A ghost ship. He had listened to stories about them all his life around Minion campfires, but had never dreamed he might actually see one. Only the graybeards among them had claimed seeing them. As he remembered their stories, one corner of his mouth turned up. As he had grown and become wiser, he had come to realize that the elders always told such stories, the next one always more improbable than the last.

Signaling to Takir, he indicated that they should investigate. Osiv drew his dreggan from its scabbard. Nodding, Takir did the same and warily followed him the rest of the way down.

Buffeting his wings, Osiv landed lightly, carefully, on the pitching stern deck. Takir came down next to him. Still the ship sailed obediently on. The masts and rigging swayed peacefully, and the hull groaned slightly in continual protest as she plowed her way along, the waves parting across her bow. Otherwise, no sound whatsoever came to their ears.

Then they heard a sharp banging noise and they spun around, dreggans held high.

But all they saw was an open stairway, its unsecured door swinging back and forth in the wind. A set of steps led down from the doorway, to the lower deck.

His hand tightening around his dreggan and all of his senses on alert, Osiv went to the door. Takir followed behind. Osiv winced as the boards of the steps creaked, traitorously announcing their presence.

The hallways below were not darkened, as Osiv had somehow expected them to be. All of the wall sconces were burning brightly, making it easy for them to find their way. As they walked forward from the stern, they saw all of the usual trappings of a ship at sea. The larder shelves were stocked with food, and there were signs of crewmen having recently eaten. Freshwater barrels, their contents partially consumed, stood securely roped against the starboard hull in several neat rows. Next they found the crew's sleeping quarters. The traditional rope hammocks were all still hanging from the rafters, swinging back and forth with the ceaseless rhythm of the abandoned ship.

A further search revealed that there were absolutely no crewmen aboard, anywhere. Yet everything was in its place, just as it should be on a well-run vessel. What strange fate could have befallen them? Osiv found himself wondering. Could the Eaters of the Dead be responsible for this? But if they were, then where was all the blood?

Seeing another set of steps heading topside, he led Takir back up, into the sunlight and the breeze. The scene was just as they had left it. The sails were still full and properly trimmed, and the ship remained duly on course, making her way toward some unknown destination.

Relaxing a bit, Osiv lowered his sword. Looking around, he saw a nearby keg. He went over and sat on it, then placed his dreggan across his knees. Takir came to stand beside him, placing the point of his dreggan on the pitching deck and leaning on the hilt. The wind moaned hauntingly through the lonely, unmanned sails.

"I don't understand it," Osiv said quietly. "Where could they all have gone? And this ship! She's still on course somehow, as if nothing was wrong. How is such a thing possible?"

"I have no idea," Takir replied. "It's as if they have all-"

Suddenly Takir heard the familiar, unmistakable sound of a sword blade ripping through bone and flesh. When he looked at his friend, he froze in disbelief.

A long, vertical wound had opened up in Osiv's head. It literally split his face in two, a vertical cut from chin to top of skull and back down to the nape of his neck. The two halves of his head slowly began to separate and fall away toward the shoulders. Osiv's eyes went blank; blood and brain matter began to slide from the wound and run down onto his body armor.

Osiv's body went crashing sloppily to the deck, his dreggan clanging noisily down.

On pure instinct, Takir lifted his dreggan high and turned full circle, searching for Osiv's murderer. But no one was there. The empty, pitching decks simply yawned back at him, in silent ridicule of his foolishness.

"Show yourself!" Takir screamed in anger as he whirled about again. He viciously slashed his sword through the surrounding air, but its razor-sharp blade bit into nothing. Suddenly, something told him he should unfold his wings and take flight. But the impulse came just a fraction too late.

"If you insist," a voice said calmly from somewhere. It was a strong, commanding voice.

Takir felt a strange sort of shudder go through him.

Looking down, he saw a vertical slit in his body armor. Then his blood began rushing from it. He absently, drunkenly, reached down and placed one hand over it, but this last act was to serve no purpose. Everything went black and he fell forward.

As the blood from the two Minion corpses joined to run slowly across the deck, the azure glow of the craft appeared. Then it faded in intensity and finally vanished altogether, to reveal Wulfgar.

His long, sandy hair swaying behind him in the wind, he looked casually down at the two dead bodies. He raised one arm, and his demonslaver crew materialized, all of them heavily armed and standing stiffly at attention, awaiting their master's orders. The sword of the one nearest him dripped with fresh blood.

Wulfgar bent over and picked up the dreggan that had belonged to Osiv. Holding it high, he examined it carefully as the sun bounced off its shiny blade.

"Such fine craftsmanship," he said, half to himself. "These swords really are a marvel. It is said that even the Jin'Sai himself carries one." With a sneer on his face, he strode purposefully to the gunwale and threw the beautiful weapon overboard. Pointing back to the slavers, he singled two of them out.

"You!" he ordered sternly. "Throw these dead bodies overboard. The rest of you return to your duties." With dutiful nods the two monsters he had chosen went about their work.

Wulfgar's tactical gamble had worked perfectly. He gave silent thanks to Nicholas for providing invaluable information about Minion abilities and customs. Now he had an excellent idea of how far away the Minion fleet was, without them knowing the position of his own. Two days' flying time, he guessed. One day from the scouting vessels to here, and another from the scout ships to the Minion fleet. That put the Minion position near the coast.